


The Cask of Holy Water

by ThornsOfWinter (SeedsOfWinter)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Apologies to Edgar Allen Poe, Disposable Demon-centric, Don’t Lick The Walls, Eric the Disposable Demon - Freeform, He/Him Pronouns For Hastur, Hell Is Filthy, Horror, Immurement, Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, POV First Person, Revenge, We/Our Pronouns for Eric, gothic horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeedsOfWinter/pseuds/ThornsOfWinter
Summary: Having suffered enough, Eric decides they must put an end to Duke Hastur’s abuses.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20
Collections: ABSFZ Halloween Good Omens Works





	The Cask of Holy Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for A Big Spooky Fan Zine (Halloween 2020), this is a Good Omens retelling of ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ by Edgar Allen Poe with Eric the Disposable Demon in the Montresor role and Hastur in the Fortunato role. Eric uses we/our pronouns and affects a more gothic internal monologue than his canon voice.

The thousand injuries of Hastur we had borne for millennia, but when he ventured into repeat discorporation in those Not-So-Final days, we vowed revenge. None of us breathed a word, attending our duties in Hell and on Earth with prompt vigor to avoid irritating the Duke. If he guessed our intent, all would be lost. We did as we were bid, ferrying the hellfire Upstairs, and watching the trial of Heaven’s traitor, all the while our plan itching in the back of our brain. And when the traitor-angel survived, we saw what must be done.

For Duke Hastur had a singular focus: punishing the demon Crowley.

Already our everlasting torment had been cut in half when the earthbound demon had destroyed Duke Ligur, Hastur’s partner in infernal mayhem. When the world restarted and all returned, only one did not, destroyed such by holy water. The remaining duke’s drive for retribution fueled him as surely as our own did.

And oh, the memory of demons was long. The fire of grudges raged eternal.

We would bide our time. Suffer at his hand again, over and again, never hinting at our true purpose. For while a Duke of Hell could know much, he could only be in one place at a time. He could watch the right hand and know not what the left procured.

One evening, years removed from the height of his disrespect (though the thought of his fate never wandered far from our thoughts), we encountered the frog-crowned duke in a hall awash with the damned.

What luck, what chance.

What masterful manipulation.

Duke Hastur’s mood loomed foul as ever, a cloud choking the filthy corridor, though fouler still for our unseen machinations over the months, leading him to that grime-encrusted corner, the name of his partner sobbed from his cracked lips, the face of Ligur’s murderer behind his eyes.

He called one of us to him, never by name. He did not know our name, never had, never cared, never would.

We were _you_. And _shit for brains_. And _arsehole_.

That evening, we were _oy, maggot_. Deferential and quaking to hide our conceit, we cowered and asked if he meant us. He wrenched our arm, his sharp grip rippling across each of our bodies.

The Duke asked what we thought we were staring at.

_Nothing, your disgrace. We weren’t staring._

The sizzling began from his fingers, searing the frayed fabric of our clothes both mortal-bound and Fallen-robed. We begged him, _Listen._

We were not staring, we clarified; we were waiting. We had news. For his unholiest of ears alone.

There was a vial of what might be holy water in the lower levels, procured for his use. _In the destruction of the demon Crowley._

His oily eyes bore into us and for a moment, we swear to you, we feared a grave miscalculation. Another agonizing discorporation a hair’s breadth away, we babbled:

_It was a trick. A lie. The angel had helped him. His immunity’s false. He’s vulnerable as any of us._

(As vulnerable as Duke Ligur.)

He released us with a shove and we collapsed to the floor. There we stayed, our hands skidding in the sludge sloughed off countless lifetimes.

Dark laughter echoed until our ears rang. The flickering lights overhead dimmed and burst with a snapping pop. He demanded we stand, and we went, hiding our smile away from the body before him.

“Holy water? Impossible!”

We confessed our doubts. But the human we had purchased it from swore they received it from a church.

“Holy water!” 

We had our doubts.

The duke laughed again, grin exposing his pondscum teeth. “Holy water,” he wheezed, words heated.

But clearly, a member of Hell as important as him, we didn’t want to disturb him with such small news. It could wait until he was ready. In the meantime, we’d check with Filing as to the veracity of–

“Go.”

_Where, your disgrace?_

The duke wanted to see the vial.

Ah, but he did not know! We had to warn him: the trip to the lower levels where we had secured the potentially deadly weapon was fraught with peril.

_To discourage thieves._

We assured him it would wait until he was ready. Until we could retrieve it for him.

“I am ready _now_.”

We bowed our head several times, submissive. Who were we to blow against the wind?

Into the lower levels, down, down, we travelled with the sickpale duke towering over us, muttering about _holy water_ and urging us on our way.

There were no guards at the service lift when we two arrived.

We implored Duke Hastur to take care as he entered the ill-repaired lift car. The buttons stuck and sticky, we managed to ring our descent for the storage level. The cables creaked and groaned above us; the car doors jiggled open, metal scraping threateningly against the stone lift shaft. At our side, the duke shifted from one big boot to the next.

 _We could stop the lift, go back_. Perhaps another night it would be safe enough to take the stairs. We told him how our life was inconsequential. We were disposable to Hell. But he? He was a Duke. Important, needed. If the cable snapped and we plummeted into the abyss, he would be missed.

“The holy water?”

We could fetch it ourself some other night. When he, precious to the damned, did not need to join us. If we were in the lift when it failed, who would even notice? None had any other time he and Ligur had seen fit to discorporate us. There was plenty of time for him to seek revenge upon the demon Crowley.

“I’m not afraid of this blasted contraption,” he said. “I’ll not be killed by a machine!”

_That is true._

We apologised for the doomsaying. His safety was paramount to us, that was all. When the lift screeched to a halt at the storage level, nearly missing the storey, we ushered him out first then climbed out as well.

Few demons had been Upstairs since the Great War. We counted ourself lucky to have seen it, ever briefly, and to know without a hint of doubt that every inch of Downstairs festered with the collective agony of our fellow Fallen. Nowhere more than Storage, if it were any indication by the crumbling dust walkways and exposed frayed wiring sparking. Every surface was slicked with a green-grey film, even the rickety leaning shelving that extended up, up, so high up that the tops disappeared into a fog overhead. The entire level remained abandoned more often than not, only a few unlucky demons sent to its bowels once every decade or so. Within were the true bones of the dead: humanity’s broken dreams and secrets best left long buried.

As we led Duke Hastur through the death-trap maze, carefully looping and doubling back to disorient him, we passed farther into the level and neared the farthest reaches.

“Bloody mess this all is.”

_Hardly no one comes down here. S’why it’s so safe to store what you don’t want messed with._

Overhead, a rasping metal squeak caught our attention. The duke flinched, long limbs raised as boxes tumbled onto us. An ancient engine missed us by inches.

_We’ll come back another time. The danger’s too great, my lord._

“None of that,” he snapped and kicked at the fallen hunk of broken parts. The great frog on his brow leered at us, as if ready to leap from its perch. “Go on! You got this holy water for me and I’m to have it.”

We deferred to his wishes and travelled onward, through tighter spaces and rickety open-grate walkways, the steel mesh bowing in objection to our weight. We ducked and climbed. Avoided the livewires in puddles. Confident only that Duke Hastur didn’t use us as a shield because he would have been lost without our knowledge.

_At last._

We arrived in the shadowy extremity of Storage, our companion near exhausted from his journey, not used to such labor, complacency dulling his abilities over the, well, over forever. Around us lay shredded tarps and barrels, their contents foul-smelling and acrid. Ahead, a door hung off its rusted hinges. The word UTILITY stood bold upon it, inexpertly painted in some unfortunate soul’s blood. The inside was black as pitch.

 _Just ahead there,_ we told him, gesturing to the darkness.

Duke Hastur pushed past us, leering at the closet.

_Bit too small for the both of us. You go ahead. The holy water for Master Crowley–_

The duke scoffed at the name and title, long stripped from the other demon. “That snake deserves what’s coming to him.”

He stepped inside, head high, triumphant.

We followed with hesitant steps, the first trace of nerves fluttering across our collective selves. Would he sense our deception before we could complete the task?

We would not allow for any mistakes. All had gone accordingly.

Behind, another of us closed in—the one who had stealthily followed the duke’s journey, sliding the engine into our path and rattling the cages of the shelves to spook the tyrant.

“Where is it?”

Our cue.

We were on him at once, four more of us revealing ourselves from the shadows of the storage closet where we had crouched with short chains that burned like grabbing a cast-iron pan without a mitt through the gloves on our hands. Two looped the silver chains through blessed locks, while the other pair grabbed and shackled the staggered demon. We pulled him tight to the wall, locking the chains at his back and knees.

The duke shrieked as the stinging blessings sunk through his clothes.

 _Stole those from heaven,_ we explained. _The angels were distracted. Soft though, aren’t they? Bit of a bite to ‘em._

Hastur yanked at the chains, but the wall did not budge. His fingertips flared and fizzled, no fire answering his call.

He wailed, “The holy water?”

_Yes. The holy water._

The duke gaped. “A lie!”

Did he find that so astounding? We were demons after all.

 _Oops! What’s this?_ We revealed a vial from inside our jacket pocket and shook it, the water sloshing as we held it out of the corner of his vision. _Had it with us this whole time? Funny that!_

Outside the closet, we threw back the shredded tarps, unveiling bricks baked in the fires of Hell, immune to Hastur’s flames if he could ever call them, and the barrels of stinking mortar. There were three trowels. We had practiced—without the cement—passing bricks and miming the plaster, perfecting how many we’d need of everything. One of us to rattle the storage shelves; one of us to lead the Duke; four to lie in wait inside his tomb.

Duke Hastur screamed as he heard the first _shlop_ of the mortar and drag of a trowel behind him. “Help! Help! Someone!”

_Won’t do a lick of good. We should know._

_Harmonising to the Old Songs down here for months now._

_No one struck us down yet._

The duke struggled in earnest but we remained focused on our tasks, building the wall and watching for any sign he could slip his bonds. When the wall grew knee-high, we all exited, leaving him alone in his silence, jaw set and black eyes staring at nothing.

The wall between us rose, layer by layer.

Long after we were sure the duke would speak no more, a gruesome laugh echoed from his chamber. Deadly, unamused. It made us jump. The tone reminded us of a feeling we hoped long gone, from when Dukes Hastur and Ligur harassed us: weak, less than. We reached out to each other, offering comfort and support, and returned to our dark task.

“I don’t like jokes,” he warned, and we knew. We remembered. We would _never_ joke with him. “Who put you up to this? Dagon? _Beelzebub?_ ”

We continued our job, many hands making light work while he continued to waste his breath.

“Very funny,” he said, nothing in his tone betraying amusement. “Now let me out of here and I might not throw you to the hellhounds.”

The slap of the cement, the scrape of the trowels, the clink of hellburnt bricks, those were our only answer for Duke Hastur. Quickly, we could barely see him within the tomb, his scorched trench coat catching no light.

“This has gone on entirely long enough,” he huffed.

We placed the final brick and sealed our tormentor within.

“Ohhh,” the duke snarled and spit, “you little brats! I’ll kill every last one of you! When I get out of here, you’re dead. Do you hear me?”

We did not answer, the half dozen of us standing apart from the wall, hand in hand for courage. Long minutes passed in silence. We exchanged glances in the dim of the moist storage room.

“Hullo? Where are you?” His voice grew peculiar, small, as we had never heard before. “I know you’re out there.”

He could call us for an eternity and we would not answer.

“Answer me!”

We would not.

He rattled his blessed chains, raging, heat flaring weakly from his fingers through the openings we left in the masonry.

An unearthly, guttural noise spilled from within the closet, pouring up with the duke’s misery. “What was his name…?”

Our stomachs dropped. It was time to go.

Leaving one of ourself to guard him, the vial of holy water in our pocket lest he manage escape in a few centuries, we dispersed: some to the lift, some to the access staircase with its broken stairs whose navigable pattern we had memorised.

And for fifty years, we have listened with one ear to the bricks, content in our duties elsewhere to know that Duke Hastur begs, threatens, cries, screams. To God. To Satan. Calling for his lost friend. Guessing at our name, _wrong, wrong, always wrong._

Our retribution stands now eternal. While his revenge shall never be!

END

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! "The Cask of Amontillado" is my all-time fave of Poe's work. It was a delight to find a way to bring it to Good Omens.


End file.
